


Something Kinda Special

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Ian, Christmas, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5536397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We, uh”—Mickey pauses, scratching the back of his neck. Shit. Why are humans so fucking embarrassing sometimes? “We have to kiss.”</p><p>“Why?” Ian says. Now he looks worried, staring up at the little sprig of green like it’s going to explode. “What happens if we don’t?”</p><p>(A <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278936/chapters/9691359">Two of Your Earth Minutes</a> Christmas Special)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Kinda Special

**Author's Note:**

> Becky wanted to know what Alien!Ian thought about Christmas, so here we are!
> 
> Also, did you know there's a song called ["I Want an Alien for Christmas"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-nrBwfbAOo)? Yeah, that's a thing I learned today. :)

Ian doesn’t like the cold. Considering the fact that his first few hours on Earth were spent naked in an alleyway in January, Mickey doesn’t really blame him.

Still, he thinks there’s a possibility that Ian’s reluctance to get out of bed in the mornings now might have another motivation.

“Ian,” he says. “C’mon, man. We gotta get going. Shit to do today.”

“Too cold,” Ian mumbles, his head buried under the sheets, somewhere near Mickey’s hip.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I put that plastic wrap stuff on the windows, landlord won’t call me back about turning up the heat anymore, you have five fucking layers you can wear. This is as warm as it’s getting, man.”

Ian hums, and presses a little closer. He nuzzles the skin right above Mickey’s boxers, and Mickey feels his dick twitch.

“C’mon, Ian,” he says, annoyed at how breathy he sounds.

“Coming,” Ian mumbles, and slips his fingers under Mickey’s waistband, tugging it down. Mickey groans as warmth pulses through him, and he raises his hips so Ian can pull his boxers down over his ass.

“Can you even get any air under there?” Mickey asks, as Ian pushes his legs apart and settles himself between them.

“Mm-hm,” Ian says, wrapping his warm hand around Mickey’s dick and giving it a few slow strokes. He kisses the inside of Mickey’s hip, then stills his hand long enough to give the head of Mickey’s dick a soft kiss, followed by a fond little lick.

Mickey sucks in a breath, and Ian makes a pleased noise in return. Then he goes back to the slow, steady strokes, his mouth up against Mickey’s skin, breathing hard. Letting his eyes drift shut, Mickey presses his head into the pillow, arching his back as much as he can, pushing into Ian’s hand.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, that’s good.”

Ian grinds against the bed a few times. Then he lets out a moan and slides his open mouth up Mickey’s cock, his tongue flat and strong. He closes his lips around it and starts to suck gently.

Mickey bites his lip, trying to choke back the sound rising in his throat. He reaches down and grabs Ian’s neck. He can feel the movement of Ian’s muscles as he moves his head, the hard beat of his pulse in his neck. His hair is warm and damp with sweat under Mickey’s fingers, and Mickey wants to bury his nose in it, inhale the smell of him.

It’s getting hard not to thrust into Ian’s mouth, but Mickey tries to resist. Sucks in deep breaths, lets them out. He feels like he’s floating on his back, pleasure all around him, centered on Ian between his legs, working him with his mouth. His hands slide up to grab Mickey’s hips and hold them down hard.

Mickey feels the pulse getting stronger, too strong to stop. White light is swimming behind his eyelids. “Hey,” he manages to whisper. “You OK?”

Ian’s moan is muffled, but he strokes soothingly at Mickey’s hip with his thumb, then manages to press himself even closer, his mouth sliding up toward the base of Mickey’s dick. He slides his hands between the bed and Mickey’s ass, then squeezes, pulling Mickey up and farther in. Like he wants to swallow him all the way down.

The image—Ian swallowing around his dick—shoots through Mickey like lightning, and shit, he can feel Ian following the thought down, knows that he’s like a goddamn open book to Ian when he’s like this, vulnerable, laid bare under his curious, warm gaze . . .

He grips Ian’s neck even harder, his other hand balled up tightly in the sheets, and almost sobs as he comes, Ian’s mouth tight and hot around him.

“Holy shit,” he says after a few seconds, still trying to catch his breath. Ian lets him slip out of his mouth with a filthy wet sound, and crawls up Mickey’s body, his head finally poking out from the sheets. He’s red-faced and grinning. Mickey’s eyes catch on his swollen lips as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and Mickey’s dick gives one last twitch. God _damn_.

“Warmer now,” Ian says. He has an elbow on either side of Mickey’s head, their faces an inch away from each other.

“No kidding,” Mickey says. Christ, he can smell himself on Ian, and it’s so fucking dirty. Ian’s dick is hard, the wet tip pushed up against Mickey’s stomach. Mickey reaches down and rubs it back and forth against his skin a few times, almost unconsciously. Ian’s eyes flutter shut, and he smiles.

“I could do that,” he says, and Mickey flushes, like he always does when Ian talks about the stuff he sees. The things Mickey wants, but can’t say yet. “I _want_ to do that. It felt hot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey says, focusing on the weight of Ian’s dick in his hand, the hardness of it. God, he loves having it in him. Ian makes him so crazy for it.

“Wonder if you could do that to me,” Ian says. He’s pushing in and out of Mickey’s fist a little faster now, excited. Mickey wonders if he’s imagining it. He knows what his mouth looks like when he sucks Ian’s dick, or he can imagine, from the way Ian stares at it sometimes. Like he’s hungry for it.

“If I didn’t mind losing my voice for a week after,” Mickey says automatically, but now he can’t stop picturing it, the too-wide stretch of his mouth, and Ian feeding it to him, sliding it down his relaxed, open throat. Filling him up until he can’t breathe or think.

“You want it,” Ian whispers, surprised.

“Shut up,” Mickey says, but he doesn’t bother to deny it. Ian knows. Mickey loves that he knows. He grips Ian’s dick harder, and Ian gasps, fucking into Mickey’s fist and burying his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck. His breath is coming faster and faster. Mickey presses a kiss into his hair, and then Ian’s mouth is on his, hot and open, and he can taste himself on Ian’s tongue. It makes him press into the kiss harder, and Ian matches him, his dick jerking and slicking up in Mickey’s hand as he moans.

Ian breaks the kiss and nuzzles back into his favorite spot against Mickey’s neck, breathing hard. Mickey wipes his hand clean on the sheets—shit, they really have to do laundry this weekend—and then wraps both his arms around Ian’s waist, hugging him close.

“Warm enough?” he says in Ian’s ear.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “’Cept that we’re still gonna have to get out to shower.”

Mickey reaches down and slaps his ass as well as he can from this angle, and Ian laughs. “Can’t live in bed,” Mickey says.

“Wish we could.” Ian sighs. “This part ends eventually, right?”

“What part?” Mickey says, his heart speeding up a little. Does he mean the wanting to live in bed thing, or . . . ?

“The cold. The snow. It did last time.”

“Yeah, man,” Mickey says, relieved. “Give it a couple more months, and we’ll be roasting to death and wishing we had an air conditioner, just like we were this summer.”

“Months,” Ian groans. “Your planet sucks.”

“Hey,” Mickey says. “It’s not all bad. I mean, we’ve got french fries. You love those. And music. Hell, even winter has Christmas.”

“Who’s Chris?” Ian asks.

“What?” Mickey says, confused.

“You just said, winter has Chris.”

“No, man,” Mickey says, laughing. “Christmas. It’s, uh, this day at the end of the month. People, like, give things to each other. And, I dunno, sing stupid songs and shit. Remember all the kids on Halloween?”

“So, you dress up and sing?” Ian says. “And give each other candy?”

“Nah, the dress-up thing is just for Halloween. But Christmas is another holiday, kind of like that.” He thinks. “There’s some candy, I guess. Different kinds. And you put stuff under a tree.”

“In the park?” Ian says. “They’re all covered in snow.”

“No, in your house.”

“Why’s there a tree in your house?” Ian asks. He sits up, leaning on one elbow so he can see Mickey’s face. He’s frowning the way he does when he’s not getting something right away. “What if you don’t live on the ground floor?”

“No, it’s not, like, alive. You cut it down. Or you can have a fake one, I guess. And you put lights and stuff on it. Ornaments.”

“You bring a dead tree into your house and light it up?” Ian says. “Is this like the skeleton thing?”

“Fuck—no, it’s not like the skeleton thing.” Shit, now Mickey’s getting frustrated too. He’s so bad at explaining stuff. You’d think after all these months, he’d have gotten better. But he definitely hasn’t. Shit, Ian would be so much better off with someone—

“Hey,” Ian says, cutting off his train of thought with a touch to his shoulder. “Don’t.”

Mickey takes a breath and closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. He’s not sure, but it seems like Ian’s getting more and more able to sense his mind, his emotions. It used to only be during sex, but maybe the more they do it . . . He shakes his head. Too much to think about.

“Tell you what,” he says after a second, opening his eyes again. “We gotta stop by the bar and get my paycheck. I bet there’s Christmas decorations up somewhere down there. Maybe even a tree. It’ll make sense—”

“When I see it,” Ian says with a sigh. “You always say that.” He flops back onto the pillow and stares at the ceiling.

“And am I always right or what?” Mickey says. He can feel a smile tugging at his mouth as he looks down at Ian.

“Or what,” Ian says, but he’s smiling back. He reaches up and pulls Mickey down for a kiss. “Guess we should shower, huh?”

“Nah,” Mickey says, between more kisses. “I definitely want to go to my workplace smelling like jizz.”

“Your workplace has definitely smelled like worse things,” Ian shoots back.

“Too true,” Mickey says, and then gives him one last slow kiss. Ian makes a soft noise. “All right, let’s go. And no funny business. We got stuff to do today.”

He rolls out of bed, and Ian follows him with a sigh. “What about serious business?” he asks Mickey.

“No business at all.”

“Fine,” Ian says. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“And all the other parts of your body,” Mickey says sternly, digging around for a clean towel.

“Those too,” Ian says. “Except my eyes.” Mickey looks back at him over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. Ian makes a suggestive face, and then stares pointedly down at Mickey’s ass.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “C’mon, smart guy, or I’ll use up all the hot water.”

Ian yelps and runs for the bathroom.

 

Besides his coat, Ian has on a green flannel shirt Mickey snagged after someone left it at the bar, a long-sleeve shirt, a T-shirt, a scarf, and a black wool hat (also courtesy of the bar). But he still looks miserable as they head outside.

“Faster we walk, the warmer you’ll be,” Mickey points out. “And the sooner we’ll get there.” Ian nods, his breath billowing out in front of him, and speeds up enough that Mickey has to jog a few steps to catch up with him.

“There you go,” he says as they turn the corner. “Christmas lights, in the window of the liquor store.”

“Oh,” says Ian. “I just thought they were redecorating.”

“Kinda,” Mickey says. “They’ll take ’em down in a few weeks, after Christmas is over.”

Ian stops and stares admiringly at the multicolored lights for a second, then shivers and starts walking again. “They’re nice,” he says. “Can people’s apartments have them too?”

“Sure,” Mickey says. “Why?”

“Should we get some?”

“Oh. Uh—” He hadn’t really thought of it. He hasn’t ever decorated for Christmas. No point, living on his own. Hell, even when he was a kid, it was about as much as they could do to throw a tree up in the corner and hang a few ornaments on it.

“We don’t have to,” Ian says hurriedly. God only knows what kind of weird look is on Mickey’s face right now, that Ian’s backpedaling so hard.

Mickey waves him off. “It’s cool,” he says. “Let’s see what they have at the dollar store.”

Ian grins, and Mickey can’t help smiling back. His stomach is warm, like he just downed a shot of whiskey. Yeah, so, making Ian happy is a good feeling. What else is new.

The bar has lights up too, and even a small, battered plastic tree in the corner, with some fake wrapped boxes underneath. When they walk by, Mickey nudges Ian and jerks his head toward it. Ian’s eyes widen with understanding.

“So are the boxes—” he starts, but Mickey nudges him again as they get closer to the bar, where Clem is sitting with a pile of receipts and a laptop.

“Hey, boys,” she says, and flips through a stack of white envelopes until she finds Mickey’s and hands it over. “Don’t spend it all at once, now.” She winks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says. He folds it up and sticks it in his pocket, then turns to go.

“Hey, Ian!” Clem calls. “Don’t let this Grinch get you down, OK?”

Ian darts an alarmed look at Mickey, who just makes a face.

“OK!” Ian says after a second, with an uncertain smile. He gives her a little wave. “Thanks!”

“Mickey,” he hisses as soon as they’re outside. “What the hell is a Grinch?”

Mickey grinds his teeth. Fucking Clem. “We’ll watch it when it’s on TV,” he says. “Let’s get out of here, get something to eat.”

There’s a coffee shop a few blocks away that has blueberry muffins and shit like that. And Ian likes their hot chocolate. Before Ian started working at the record store, Mickey would have said they should have breakfast at home, save the money. But they’re gonna make rent this month, no problem, so hot chocolate it is. The place is also full of fucking hipsters, but whatever. Mickey won’t bother them if they don’t bother him.

Ian grins again when he sees where they’re going. “Whipped cream?” he asks.

“Sure, man,” Mickey says. “You put all the white goop you want on your drink.”

“You don’t want any?” Ian’s giving him puppy-dog eyes. How did he get so good at that? The guy’s probably never even been within five feet of a puppy.

“Yeah, I’ll have a sip, whatever.” Ian grabs his hand and squeezes it.

“What can I get you?” the dude behind the counter says. His eyes are lingering on their hands in a way Mickey doesn’t really like, but fuck if he’s gonna drop it just because some punk with blue hair and a lip piercing gives them shit.

“Blueberry muffin and hot chocolate with whipped cream,” Mickey says, staring him down. The guy gives him a little smile—what the fuck—and then jerks his chin pointedly, looking up at the ceiling.

“What,” Mickey says flatly. He can feel Ian tensing up next to him.

The guy does it again. After giving him another glare, Mickey slowly looks up.

“Seriously?” he says.

“It’s kinda the rules,” the guy says, and now he’s grinning. “Let me grab that muffin and hot chocolate for you two.”

“What?” Ian says, looking up at the plant hanging above them, mystified.

“We, uh”—Mickey pauses, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. Shit. Why are humans so fucking embarrassing sometimes? “We have to kiss.”

“Why?” Ian says. Now he looks worried, staring up at the little sprig of green like it’s going to explode. “What happens if we don’t?”

Mickey blinks. “I—actually have no fucking clue.” Ian looks at him with panic. “About why it’s a thing. Nothing happens if we don’t. It’s just, like, a tradition.”

“Like the trees?” Ian says.

“Yeah, like that.”

“Why don’t you have all these rules about plants when it’s warm and things are actually growing?” Ian says, sounding kind of annoyed.

“Jesus, never mind,” Mickey says, letting go of Ian’s hand and jamming his own in his coat pocket. They stand there in silence for a minute while the guy brings them the muffin and the hot chocolate.

Mickey grabs his plate and goes to sit down at a table in the corner, Ian trailing behind. Another couple is making a move for it, but the look he gives them convinces them to back off. He peels off his coat, but Ian leaves his on. Probably still cold.

Another awkward silence. Mickey breaks off a bite of his muffin, but doesn’t eat it. Ian wraps his hands around the warm cup.

“I’m sorry,” Ian offers after a second. Mickey glances up at him, and then back down at his plate. “It’s just—” He sighs. “You know, it’s like, every time I think I’m finally getting the hang of things, something else comes along and it feels like I’m right back where I started. It makes me feel so . . . so . . .” His hands are curled up in fists on the table now, and he’s staring down at them, like they’ve failed him somehow.

But they haven’t. Mickey has.

He reaches out and brushes a finger across Ian’s knuckles. “Oh.” He lets out a laugh. “I thought, you know. Maybe you just didn’t want—”

“What, to kiss you?” Ian says, incredulous.

“Well, you know. In front of people or whatever.”

“Actually,” Ian says. “You might have a point.”

Mickey looks up at him, his stomach sinking. But Ian smiles and reaches out to grab his hand again. He slips his fingers between Mickey’s.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “You know, once we start . . .”

Mickey can’t help it—he laughs. “Oh my god, drink your hot sugar water,” he says.

“You love it,” Ian says, taking a big gulp of the hot chocolate.

“Don’t,” Mickey says. Ian offers him the mug, and Mickey takes a sip. It’s sweet and heavy on his tongue. He doesn’t hate it.

“Sorry,” he says, handing it back. “That I’m so shitty at explaining things.”

“You’re not,” Ian says. “I get frustrated, but that’s not your fault. There’s a lot to learn.” He looks down at the table, and then back up at Mickey. “I like it better when you show me, though.” Out of nowhere, a little pulse of the same warmth from this morning goes through Mickey.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Well, not here,” Ian says, taking another sip and smirking.

Mickey considers throwing his blueberry muffin at him, but decides it would be a waste, and takes a huge bite instead.

 

The dollar store has lights, and Mickey grabs a fake wreath, too. They don’t really have room for a tree, and he doesn’t have any ornaments to hang on it anyway.

 _Next year_ , he thinks, and then feels kind of weird. Next year. Will Ian even still be here next year? They never talk about that kind of shit. Once, maybe, in the middle of a fight. Hell, he doesn’t even want to think about it.

He shakes his head, and goes to find Ian, whose love of wandering around the dollar store borders on unholy. Mickey finds him transfixed in front of a wall of tinsel and garlands, shiny under the store’s fluorescent lights.

“Wow,” he says. “They’re beautiful. Are they expensive?”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “But we don’t have anything to put it on.”

“Oh.” Ian hides his disappointment pretty quick, but maybe this whole mind-reading thing is starting to go both ways, because Mickey knows.

“Grab a box of the silver stuff,” he says. “We’ll find somewhere.”

They end up watching _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ a week later on a TV that’s draped in tinsel. Ian is completely transfixed, sitting on the edge of the couch, but Mickey’s having a way better time watching Ian’s reactions. It’s weird—he can’t remember a time when he didn’t know what the Grinch was, or the tune of that stupid song at the end. Doesn’t remember specifically watching it or anything. He just kind of knew it. But it’s all new to Ian, and he drinks in every animated frame like it’s a goddamn revelation.

When it’s over, Mickey flicks off the TV, and pulls Ian down to lie against him on the couch. The multicolored Christmas lights give the room a dim red glow, and Mickey’ll be damned if his heart isn’t feeling a few sizes bigger.

“So,” he says, “what do you think? Am I a Grinch?”

“Hmm,” Ian says. “Well, I guess I can see a bit of a resemblance. Especially in the eyebrow area. And the dislike of noise.”

“Yeah?” Mickey says, baring his teeth close to Ian’s neck, then giving it a kiss instead. “You think I’d steal everyone’s presents?”

“Hell yeah,” Ian says. “Free presents, right?” Then he gets serious. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to get you.”

Mickey chuckles. “Don’t worry about it, man. I’m pretty sure you’ve got an exemption or something. You know, most of us can’t even talk or walk for our first Christmas. I’d say you’re already ahead of the curve.”

“Did you get _me_ something?” Ian asks, sounding nervous.

Mickey shrugs. “Well, yeah, but I was going to give it to you anyway. It’s not a big deal.” He’d wanted to get the phone for Ian a lot sooner, but the ones that played music were more expensive, and so were the headphones. Worth it, though.

“I want to get you something too,” Ian says. “Can’t you at least give me a hint?”

Mickey thinks for a second. “Um . . .” It’s unbelievably cheesy, but he’s having this weird urge to quote that song all the stores have been playing since October. _All I want for Christmas . . ._

He thinks about his Christmas last year. Chinese food and a bottle of Jack. He’d watched that station that played the fireplace for about two hours, then put on some shitty action movie and fell asleep. Woke up with a hangover and lo mein all over the floor.

“Seriously, Ian,” he says finally. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, OK?”

Ian sighs. “Not worried,” he says. “I just want to have something to give you.”

Mickey swallows down the thing he really wants to say, and goes for the easy one instead.

“I can think of _something_ ,” he says, his hand on Ian’s stomach starting to creep a little lower.

Ian laughs, and Mickey knows he’s off the hook, at least for tonight.

 

Apparently he’s off the hook completely, because Ian doesn’t ask him about it again, much to Mickey’s relief. Maybe Ian caught on to the fact that Mickey doesn’t really need anything besides what he’s got. Or maybe he wandered around the bookstore and found a book he thinks Mickey will like. Hell, maybe Sam helped him think of something. (If so, Mickey just hopes it’s nothing alive. Or illegal. Or both.)

Whatever. Point is, on Christmas, when Mickey comes back from picking up their food at the Chinese place for lunch (hey, some things are tradition), there’s still nothing under the TV besides his own badly wrapped box. Which is fine. It’s what he wanted. Hell, in a way, Ian showing up was kind of like a belated Christmas present last year. He figures he’s caught up on Christmas presents for the next five to ten years, easy.

“Beef and broccoli, you weirdo,” he says, tossing the bag on the table and taking off his coat.

Ian comes out of the bedroom slowly, looking nervous.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asks. That’s usually Ian’s _I think I broke something and I’m not sure if it can be fixed_ face. “Just tell me it’s not the toaster.”

Usually he’d get a laugh for that, but Ian just looks at him with wide eyes.

“Christ, Ian,” Mickey says, his stomach sinking. “What?”

“I—got you something,” Ian says. “Or at least, I tried. But I’m not sure if it worked.”

Mickey sits down on the couch, taking a deep breath. “I told you, you didn’t have to worry about it. Christ, I thought you were gonna tell me—”

“Can you just take it?” Ian says, still looking way more upset than he should over whatever the hell it is.

“Sure,” Mickey says. “Uh, where is it?”

Ian sits down next to him. “Hold out your hand.”

Now Mickey’s nervous, too. “It doesn’t . . . bite or anything, does it?”

Ian shakes his head, then looks expectantly at his hand.

“OK, fine,” Mickey says. He wipes his hand on his jeans, then reaches it out to Ian, palm up.

Ian opens his own hand and lets the thing fall into Mickey’s. It’s a gray metal chain. Not shiny or anything. It looks like something crappy out of one of those toy vending machines. The thing on the chain is a flat, round disc. There’s no markings.

Mickey smiles, surprised and relived. “Thanks, man. It’s . . . it’s awesome.”

Ian frowns. “What are you talking about?” he says. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“Seen what?” Mickey says, still smiling. Ian reaches out and wraps Mickey’s hand around the disc. Then he closes his eyes and squeezes Mickey’s hand, hard.

The images fill Mickey’s head faster than he can process them, a wild rush of flashing light. At first it’s only light, different colors, surges of energy. There’s feelings, too—nothing he can put into words. Just raw emotion. Warmth, sometimes, and anger. But underneath it all, running through everything, a deep lonely ache. Longing. For what? He doesn’t know.

And then, cold. Bone-deep, agonizing, like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s like being thrown in the lake in the middle of winter, naked, and no hope of rescue. Darkness.

The first thing he sees, really sees, is a face looking down at him. Frowning. A hand on his shoulder, a voice. And then, warm again. Almost shocking, after the cold. And that same voice again. The face, close to him now. Weirdly familiar, but strange.

Like looking in a mirror.

The rest flashes by almost too quick for him to catch anything. Tastes in his mouth, bitter and sweet, completely overwhelming at first. A constant blare of noise and people, all of it strange but somehow exciting.

The rush of images starts to slow down, settling into a soothing pattern. Blue skies, then darkness, over and over. And underneath it all, a new feeling is growing. Like that first rush of warmth, after the cold. Underlying everything, the way the loneliness had been before, but instead it’s . . . it’s . . .

 _Home_ , something in him whispers. _Happiness._

_Love._

The first thing he becomes aware of again is his breathing. Unsteady. Too loud. Everything around him is still. Quiet.

Ian touches his shoulder, and Mickey opens his eyes to see the worried look on his face.

“Mickey,” he says. “Mick, are you—I didn’t think—are you OK?”

Mickey nods, shaken. “Yeah,” he manages after a second. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “It looked like it hurt, and it wasn’t supposed to. I just wanted to show you . . . I wanted you to see . . .”

“I saw,” Mickey says. He lets out a breath that turns into a laugh. “I, uh. I saw.”

“Are you sure you’re OK?” Ian says. He’s turned totally sideways on the couch, looking anxiously at Mickey. He takes his hand off his shoulder, and touches his cheek instead. “You’re crying.”

“I’m happy,” Mickey whispers.

“You are?” Ian’s staring into his eyes, searching for some reassurance that Mickey doesn’t know how to give.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am. That was—” He doesn’t know how to say it. So he just looks back at Ian, tries to make him to understand. Reaches out and wraps a hand around Ian’s neck, strokes his cheek with his thumb. Tries to say it through the press of his fingers, the look in his eyes.

Ian smiles, relived. He grabs Mickey’s wrist and presses a kiss to the palm of his hand. “There,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Mickey says. He sniffs, trying to pull it together. “My stuff’s, uh, not quite that good.”

“It is,” Ian says. “I unwrapped it while you were gone, then put it back in the box and taped the paper back on.”

Mickey laughs. “Oh my god,” he says. “You are terrible at Christmas.”

Ian shrugs. “Oh well. Guess there’s always next year.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, his heart beating way too hard. “Next year.”


End file.
